


Inexplicable (and All the More Real)

by MickyRC



Series: the Almost Familiar 'verse [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abandonment, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, Queer Themes, Queer Youth, The Dowlings' A+ Parenting (Good Omens), Transitioning, my beloved herd of wild(ly queer) OCs, seriously though queer IS the theme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26516059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MickyRC/pseuds/MickyRC
Summary: Warlock has been queer—as in odd—their whole life. Turns out they’re queer—as in Queer—too. It just took a little longer to get there.A glance into moments of Warlock’s life as they grow up, find themselves, and find their family again.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Nanny Ashtoreth & Warlock Dowling
Series: the Almost Familiar 'verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927987
Comments: 14
Kudos: 207





	Inexplicable (and All the More Real)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I finally did it! This was originally started as a scene in my story Almost Familiar, but way back in December when I was writing it I couldn’t figure out how to end it and it was taking things in the wrong direction so it got very reluctantly cut. But I’ve been going back to it every few months since, trying to figure out how the heck to end this thing so I could add it as a little extra. Turns out I had to have a little coming out moment of my own to give Warlock theirs.
> 
> This mostly stands alone, I think, but it does take place in the Almost Familiar universe, so it probably makes more sense if you’ve read the main one. Either way, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy!

Warlock Dowling was four years old the first time he put on a skirt.

He didn’t like it.

He couldn’t move the same way he could in trousers, had to constantly pay attention to where his knees were or risk everyone seeing his underpants. Which wasn’t  _ too _ much of a concern, because, for one thing, his pants had spaceships on them, they were  _ meant _ to be seen, and for another, there was nobody around. The nanny—not  _ Nanny _ nanny yet, the one before that—was in the kitchen, probably gossiping with the cook, but he didn’t really care. He was used to being left on his own.

The swishy-ness was nice. And it was a heck of a lot easier to put on than trousers; his stubby little fingers still had trouble with buttons, but the skirt he could just yank on and be done with. He wondered what it would feel like to run in it, if he went outside and just started zooming around the garden. He’d probably get all tangled in it. And the way his legs rubbed together—no, he didn’t like that feeling. Not very nice. Not worth the swish.

The nanny didn’t even notice. By the time she came back, Warlock had exhausted the novelty of the skirt and put it back in the basket of donations he’d found it in. And that was that.

He was seven the first time he curled his hair.

A classmate had wanted to braid it, because everyone was a little bit fascinated by his long hair, and he had agreed, just for the fun of it.

Then when he got home, Nanny— _ his _ nanny, now, the real one—had cooed over the braids so much he decided he was never going to take them out. He would live like that from now on, and the braids would just get longer and longer as his hair grew, and Nanny would just keep complimenting them forever.

Eventually, though, he needed a bath, and he sat on the edge of the tub and pouted as Nanny tugged the little elastics out. It hurt a little when she teased his hair out of the position it had been in for so long, made his scalp ache, but she was gentle. And she didn’t hush him when he hissed at the pain, just winced with him and went a little slower on the next section. Finally it was done, and she went down the hall to get an extra towel, and while she was gone he saw himself in the mirror.

It didn’t look like him.

That was his face, sure, but his hair had never been anything but pin straight. He reached up with cautious fingers and felt the mess of crimpy curls all over his head. It was  _ bouncy _ —and a little greasy, too, but that was nothing against the  _ movement _ of it whenever he shifted his head. He didn’t necessarily like it, he decided. It stuck out weird on the sides, and his bangs refused to go anywhere but up. But it wasn’t bad, either.

He learned to braid hair. Nanny never let him practice on her, but the girls at school were more than happy to, and sometimes when he was watching TV or reading he would reach up and try it on himself. He never left the curls in, but he always studied them in the mirror before he got in the shower or the bath to wash it back to straight and plain. Once, in high school, he borrowed a friend’s curling iron and tried more conventional curls. It was… okay, but not worth the effort. He gave the curling iron back. And that was that.

He was eleven the first time he put on makeup.

He still had the tube of lipstick, actually. Had thrown it out more times than he could count, but always found himself rooting through the bin at the last moment, desperately searching for it. Not quite ready to let go.

It went… badly, that first time. Lipstick is surprisingly tricky to get right, he learned, has a tendency to go everywhere except where you want it to. The shade didn’t help, either, that flowery pink just did  _ not _ want to come off, and no matter how much he scrubbed at it, there was still a faint stain above his lip.

“Sweetie, what’s that on your face?”

A truly horrid blush, that’s what was on his face, but before he could make an excuse or squirm away his mother had taken hold of his chin and angled it toward the light. “Is this… sweetie is this a bruise? Warlock, have you been fighting?” He stared at her. Who the hell did she think she was talking to? Warlock had never put himself anywhere near a fight in his life.

“What’s this?” His father walked in then, and Warlock gave up. A bruise was better than lipstick, probably. And whatever happened, he could always go to—

No. No, he couldn’t. Nanny wasn’t there anymore. Had left without a word, without a trace, without leaving anything behind but a tube of pink lipstick she’d forgotten in the bathroom.

He got better at lipstick, slowly but surely, practicing at night when he’d have plenty of time to take it all off, but it wasn’t until middle school that he really caught onto the kind of makeup he liked. He found a tube of mascara in the hall at school one day, and suddenly, looking at his sloppily darkened lashes in the bathroom mirror, he realized why some of the girls in his classes were always wearing this stuff. The next chance he got, he snuck out to the closest drugstore and bought the cheapest things he could find, liner and eyeshadow and little brushes he had no idea how to use. Then he had to wait to try any of it out, because he got pinkeye from the found mascara, but it was worth it.

He mostly stopped trying the lipstick after that. Eye makeup was better; it was a whole new canvas for him, and he wanted to try everything. The few times he did stop to look at the lip color section of a drugstore makeup aisle, he always found himself with the same shade of pink in his hand. And he really didn’t need that kind of reminder sitting on his face all day. Eyeliner and mascara didn’t have memories attached. Nanny had probably worn them, she was always so perfectly done up, but he never saw it behind her dark glasses, so. Not a problem. He decided to just stay away from lipstick, keep it simple. And that was that.

Warlock was eighteen the first time he dyed his hair.

He sat on the bathroom floor and leaned his head back over the tub while Jules ran gloved fingers through his hair in carefully separated sections. There was music blasting, and Ollie and Rachel had crammed themselves into the room with them, laughing and joking and arguing over whether they should have bleached his hair before dying it. Warlock really didn’t care. They could do anything they wanted to his head, and he wouldn’t fight it at all.

Rachel took great pleasure in mocking his shirt, an old ratty thing from some public radio fundraiser, which he’d finally decided was ready to be retired for good. While she was distracted, Ollie snatched the speaker, and as much as Jules threatened to put purple handprints all over her jeans if she didn’t put The Oh Hellos back on right this instant, they shouted along louder than any of them when “Don’t Stop Me Now” started playing.

And a little later, when they had all been banished to the living room, he got to hear Rachel  _ nail _ the high note in “Killer Queen,” even over the pound of water on his head. He watched the inky blue dye run over his feet, and somehow he didn’t flinch when he realized there was no way to hide this. His hair was blue now. The whole world was gonna see it. And that was that.

He couldn’t look in the mirror when he got out of the shower. Just wrapped a towel around his head and yanked on sweatpants and a clean tee and headed out to the living room before he could look. And then his friends (his  _ fucking friends _ ) gasped and oohed and whooped so much over the color he decided he was never going to get rid of it. He would live like that from now on, and the color would grow out past his shoulders and leave the rest of his hair plain, and he would just keep loving it forever.

He did. He loved it. He didn’t think he’d ever felt that way about anything on his own body before.

Warlock Dowling was 21 the first time they raised their hand on the first day of class and said “Actually, my name’s also Ashley.” And their professor nodded and made a note, and called the next person on the role sheet.

That class was a haze for Warlock. They felt so giddy with it, they thought they might explode right out of their chest. It was almost the same feeling they'd had all the times before when they’d sat in their seat and  _ almost _ spoken up,  _ almost _ claimed their name for themself out loud, but choked on nerves instead. It was the same flood of jittery energy that made their hands tremble and their voice sound too loud in their ears.

It was fucking worth it though.

After class that day, they turned the wrong way home, toward the underground instead of the bus stop. They grabbed a train on the Piccadilly line and watched the stations on the map as they sped towards Soho.

Aziraphale was reshelving books right up at the front of the shop, and he’d hardly had time to turn and smile before he had an armful of Warlock. “What’s all this?” he asked, wrapping his arms around Warlock’s back. Warlock didn’t respond except to dig their face into Aziraphale’s shirt, so their guardian switched tactics. “Good or bad?” he asked, and Warlock loved him so much they could burst with it.

“Good,” they said into Aziraphale’s shirt. “So  _ fucking _ good.”

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the top of their head, and Warlock could feel his grin against their hair. “I’m so glad,” Aziraphale said, and kept hugging them.

They stayed there for a while before Crowley leaned out of the back room and called over to them. “What’s going on out here?”

“Ashley’s home, dear.”

Crowley pouted. “Why do you get all the hugs?”

Warlock lifted their head from Aziraphale’s shirt. “‘Cos you’re all the way over there,” they said.

Crowley took that as the challenge it was, and immediately came to throw his arms around both of them. Warlock breathed in the paper and leather and coffee and tea scent of them, and couldn’t stop a grin. This was  _ exactly _ where they wanted to be.

“Darling,” Aziraphale eventually said, leaning around Warlock’s head to talk to Crowley. “Do you think you could get us reservations at that Indian place we all like?”

“Sure, done. What for?”

“We have something to celebrate.”

“Oh? What?”

“I have no idea,” Aziraphale said cheerfully.

Crowley laughed, and the sound carried right from his chest into Warlock’s ear. They held on a little tighter, and reveled in the sheer love that filled the bookshop.

They went out for dinner, and when Warlock told them what they’d done that day in the car Crowley and Aziraphale both gasped and grinned and looked so proud Warlock didn’t think they could stand it. Aziraphale couldn’t wait till they got there to give them a hug, and leaned half out of his seat to reach them in the back. Warlock glanced over his shoulder at the rearview mirror, and saw what looked like tears in Crowley’s eyes.

Warlock’s eyes were wet, too, and they were very grateful when neither of them asked them why. They didn’t really know if they could explain this yet.

There were a lot of things they couldn’t explain, though. They couldn’t explain their job taking inventory at a bookshop that didn’t sell books. They couldn’t explain the weird jump in their gut that still happened sometimes when they sat on the sofa with Jules and Ollie and Rachel watching movies and laughing together. They couldn’t explain why some days they were definitely, without a doubt, named Warlock, and the other days when Ashley was better. They sure as hell couldn’t explain how they’d wound up with this bizarre little family that meant so much.

That was kind of the point, though. There were so many tiny things that had to go right for them to find themself exactly here. So many things that had to go wrong, too.

This was, really and truly, exactly where they wanted to be. In their own skin, in Nanny and Brother Francis’s arms, in the world.

Warlock was eleven when their world flipped inside out.

But somehow, after all of it, things turned out alright.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also yell at me on tumblr [over here!](https://one-with-the-floor.tumblr.com/)


End file.
